


the indestructible couch

by quillclouds



Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén
Genre: F/F, Fluff and Angst, My two favourite things, and also post-heartbreak, gratituous use of dashes, pre-heartbreak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:00:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26187589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quillclouds/pseuds/quillclouds
Summary: You’re pretty sure Ortega’s couch is indestructible.
Relationships: Ortega/Sidestep (Fallen Hero)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	the indestructible couch

The first time you go to Ortega’s apartment, you’re both bruised and you don’t trust her to get herself home safe. Not bad enough for her to go to hospital, but enough that the two of you stagger together down the streets as you gulp in air. There had been… more trouble than you expected, and Ortega had taken the brunt of it. A flashier target, one who threw herself in like a damned offering. You consider slapping her, but her cheek is already mottled with bruises and you’re not that cruel. The receptionist looks panicked as you haul Ortega in through the front doors, everyone in the lobby turning to gawk at the two of you. You’re sure someone takes a picture. Fantastic. 

“Hey, Jenny,” Ortega grins. “Don’t worry bout us, we’re just heading upstairs.”

You rub your mask with your free hand, letting out a soft breath of exasperation as the receptionist stammers out a _sure_ and you march Ortega to the elevators. 

“Floor?” you ask. Fortunately, it looks like no one is eager to rush in and join the two of you. You can’t imagine why. Ortega tells you, and you punch in the number and cling to her and also the handrail as the elevator lurches. 

“Don’t like elevators?” Ortega teases, and you roll your eyes behind your mask. She can’t see you do it - hasn’t even seen your face yet - but seems to get the gist because she laughs. You shake your head and unlock her apartment with the keys she passes you. 

“Uh… where can you lay down?” you ask. 

“The couch. It’s indestructible,” Ortega says, and you plop her down on the couch. You stagger back, going to leave, but her hand shoots out and catches your wrist. Not hard enough to hurt - you could easily break her grip if you wanted. You don’t. “Hey. Stay for a bit.”

You shouldn’t. That would be dumb. 

But you are dumb, so you nod and perch yourself on the arm of the couch and talk. Like a person. 

Something so simple shouldn't feel as good as it does, but warmth floods your chest anyway and you smile all the way home.

* * *

You’re slightly drunk and lugging an even drunker Ortega into her apartment, the taste of your dinner still on your lips as her weight drags you half-over as well. She’s laughing her head off at something or another, and you’re smiling despite yourself - behind your mask, of course, because even your casual days out were done in suit. If the press took photos - and they would - it would only be a matter of time before… well. Before. 

The feeling of her couch is familiar as you sit yourself on the arm again - not the proper part, that seems too… comfortable. Too hard to get up from and run. You don’t take your mask off, not yet - Ortega knows your name now, but not your face. Emmeline isn’t what the Farm had called you. It wasn’t even an uncommon name. Less ties to what you were and where you came from than your face. You gulp, the sting of pain cutting through the haze of drink, but if Ortega notices she doesn’t say anything. 

She probably doesn’t notice. She’s still giggling like a child, and you roll your eyes. 

And then, she has the gall to loop her arms round your middle and pull you down. You squawk as your legs flail and she laughs even harder, still gripping you. You’re on your back like a fucking turtle, and she’s a very obnoxious shell. Helpless - 

No. Not helpless. This is Ortega, and she'd never hurt you.

Not like the Farm had.

“Ortega,” you hiss anyway, because you have a reputation. “I am going to hit you.”

“No you aren’t,” she says, voice slurring, and you groan. No, you aren’t. 

You don’t know how she falls asleep with your weight still on her - drink, you guess - or how she still manages to grip you like iron while snoozing. You didn’t mean to fall asleep too. 

But you wake up there, still in your suit and her arms. Well… that could’ve gone much worse. 

* * *

“This is… really bad,” you snort, cramming more popcorn in your mouth. Ortega likes watching the shitty movies about her, and you’re all too happy to oblige. She laughs along and nods, taking a deep swig of her beer and shaking her head. 

“Really, really bad,” she says, delighted, and opens her mouth. You roll your eyes and chuck some popcorn in, and her jaw clamps shut with a grin. 

“You have arms, old lady,” you mutter, poking her in the side. She doesn’t rise to your bait, just smirking at you, and you have a bit of a staring contest as fictional Ortega punches someone. You lose, of course. “You’re insufferable.” 

“And yet here you are,” Ortega crows, like a victory. “Suffering me.”

You can feel her fingers catch in your hair, and when had she raised her hand to do that? Quickly, you put the bowl of popcorn down so you don’t throw it in surprise and pull your knees to your chest as you lean into the couch and into her. You don’t look at her though, instead surveying the fabric of the couch and the back of your hands. The movie drones on and on, but you're barely paying attention. She feels warm and strong and _safe_ , and it's risky to feel safe but you do anyway.

And then she laughs. 

“Hey look, we’re kissing,” she cackles, and you jolt and look. Yep, that would be fictional you and fictional Ortega sucking face. You’d forgotten you were in this movie.

“Astute observation,” you mutter, then wince. “That looks like a really awkward kiss.” 

Ortega laughs, and you can feel yourself being dragged forward. You’re really not surprised when she kisses you - the movie isn’t entirely based in fiction when it put that scene in. You laugh into the kiss and wrap an arm around her back. It ends too soon and not quickly enough, like all your kisses. 

“Better than the one on screen?” she asks, and you huff and nod. You know she’s reaching for compliments - she’s a sucker for them - but she _is_ a good kisser. Or at least you think she is. She’s the only person you’ve ever really kissed, anyway. “Think we should volunteer and show them how it’s actually done?”

“No,” you say flatly, because as preposterous as that sounds Ortega's the exact kind of ridiculous that would actually do it. She just grins and kisses you again.

* * *

The couch is gone when you come back. Not quite as indestructible as either of you thought, apparently. This new one is… fine, you suppose. But you sit on it and it’s just another reminder of how much everything changed when you were gone… dead, at least in everyone's minds. Of course the world kept turning without you; the Farm had made sure to drill that in while you were there, newspaper articles in Regina's office that you’re now sure were doctored. But still…

But still. 

You’re watching another movie after another dinner. Not a Rangers one this time, just whatever was on TV when Ortega was clicking around. You shouldn’t be here - every second in her presence is getting you more and more tangled in your own web, making the inevitable heartbreak so much worse - but you can’t stay away. You’ve warned Ortega over and over that all you’re going to do is hurt her, but you’re not strong enough to back it up by leaving. Both of you are in a free-fall now, and you don't know how to stop it.

Just how to hit the ground and bring her down with you.

“Hey,” Ortega says softly. “You okay? You look like you're a million miles away.”

She knows you’re not okay, but she keeps asking. Julia Ortega is nothing if not persistent, you suppose - and utterly stupid, trying to fix someone who can’t be fixed. Your smile comes out more as a grimace, and her expression is entirely unconvinced. Fair.   
  
“I miss your old couch,” you mutter. It’s easier than telling the truth. Ortega blinks, then laughs - but you know she knows that’s not it. 

Still, she doesn’t push. She thinks that if she presses too much, you’ll burst into smoke and disappear through her fingers again. A flash of green and broken glass. You let out a stuttering breath and reach for the bowl of popcorn - but it’s empty. 

Hah. There’s a metaphor in her somewhere, you’re sure of it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you've just got to centre a whole fic around a couch. I just want these two absolute fools to be happy.


End file.
